


Strangers in the Network

by LeapAngstily



Series: December Footie Fanfic Giveaway [6]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Monto has issues, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Referenced past non-con, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Written in the Software</i>. Memo is feeling like a guest in the place that is supposed to be his home now, while Riccardo is forced to meet the ghosts of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers in the Network

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunasenzanotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [Written in the Software](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1975503) – it should be read first for this story to make any sense. 
> 
> In short, the basic premise is a dystopian society where a computer program matches everyone up with their “ideal partner” and they are required to marry each other on the threat of imprisonment (for the matched couple as well as other people directly involved).
> 
> Written for my [December Footie Fic Giveaway](http://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/104190423597). It turned out much longer than the other giveaway fics, because once I started writing, I just couldn’t stop.
> 
>  

A Christmas wedding had seemed like a silly idea when it first came up.  
  
However, as they had kept comparing their schedules, they had come to realize Christmas was the only time within their six-month time limit that both their families could be present at the reception – and their families were the only reason they needed to have a reception in the first place, so they really had had no say in the matter.  
  
Memo had moved to Italy in the beginning of October, good three months after their first meeting in Brazil, with only two suitcases full of clothes and a few personal items in tow. Riccardo’s apartment was big and fully furnished, so there was no need to bring anything else with him.  
  
He had settled into the guest room, his clothes in the wardrobe and a picture of his family on the nightstand the only things that were truly his. Riccardo had cleared a space for him in the bathroom shelf, their toothbrushes side by side in a cup next to the sink.  
  
He had met Riccardo’s family during the very first weekend, and Riccardo had soon introduced him to a handful of his friends as well – Andrea, who Memo had talked to over the phone in Brazil, and his husband Pippo; Ignazio, Riccardo’s co-worker from the magazine, and his wife and son; and Cristina, Riccardo’s neighbour and close friend since he had first moved to Milan.  
  
All things considered, Riccardo has obviously been making an effort to make Memo feel like home, even though their communication rarely consists of anything deeper than wedding plans or “what do you want for dinner?”  
  
For the most part, Riccardo is busy with work, leaving Memo alone in the foreign surroundings. The only people he meets regularly are from his Italian class, and Memo has soon found out that after years of working full time, being unemployed does not sit with him well.  
  
But there is nothing he can do about it, not before he learns the language, and definitely not before the wedding that will finally help him get the full visa.  
  
So as the wedding day keeps slowly approaching, Memo settles into the apartment that does not feel his own – wherever he looks, he can see only Riccardo: his taste, his interests, his work, his life – with no friends of his own and no work to occupy his time.  
  
It might be bearable if he actually felt like Riccardo wanted him there, but that is obviously too much to ask for. Riccardo is always nice and polite with him, but he also keeps his distance, never touching Memo unless he cannot help it, rarely mentioning his personal life in his fiancé’s presence.  
  
Memo has figured he should be happy that Riccardo is at least making an effort, after that first encounter when he had made it painfully clear to Memo that he had no intention of doing so.  
  
However, time and time again Memo finds himself hoping Riccardo would just open up and say what he is thinking of – even if that information might be painful for Memo, even if hearing it could mean their marriage would never work as anything more than just pretence.  
  
Because even if Riccardo turned out to be as horrible a person as he had first shown Memo in Brazil, that person would still be someone Memo feels he might be able to reach, unlike this pleasant front he keeps seeing day in day out.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Sorry I’m late – the report took longer than expected!” Riccardo apologizes to Memo as he jogs up to where he is waiting in front of the language school doors, “We better get going or we’re gonna be late for the fitting.”  
  
The wedding is only a week away and they are supposed to be fitting on their suits in five minutes, an appointment they had agreed on weeks ago.  
  
Memo brushes off his apologies with a half-hearted smile and he follows Riccardo’s lead without a complaint, falling in step with him right away. Riccardo knows he feels out of his depth in the central Milan, surrounded by the brand name fashion stores and Italian signs everywhere.  
  
“Pippo and Andrea invited us over for dinner tonight,” he tells Memo, throwing a careless smile towards him, a clumsy attempt to take his mind off the rush hour crowd surrounding them as they make their way through the shopping district, “I thought we could take a quick trip home after the fitting and then head over there right away. What do you think?”  
  
“It sounds good,” Memo answers in his broken Italian – he is obviously making a point of using the language more each day, and Riccardo finds it admirable – ducking out of the way right when a passerby is about to collide into him.  
  
“Be careful, the crowd’s bigger than usual today,” Riccardo warns him, grabbing a hold of his hand before he can stop himself. Memo’s larger hand fits into his surprisingly well, his fingers wrapping around Riccardo’s like on instinct.  
  
Riccardo is about to apologize and pull his hand away – they are not a  _couple_ , not like that – but then he meets Memo’s eyes and the surprised delight shining back at him makes him change his mind.  
  
It is easier to walk through the streets without getting separated from each other like this, anyways, and Memo’s hand is warm, much warmer than Riccardo’s who has been running around the city since morning.  
  
“So, how was your class?” Riccardo breaks the silence that has fallen between them, mainly to turn his own attention away from their intertwined hands.  
  
“Mostly revision for the final exam,” Memo answers with a half-shrug, a small smile tugging on his lips when Riccardo glances at him, “It’s weird – I thought I was done with exams when I graduated high school, and yet here I am.”  
  
“You’ll be fine,” Riccardo assures him immediately, “I was surprised how easily you’ve picked up Italian – it took me ages to reach that level in Spanish.”  
  
“Do I have a choice when you’re the only one in the neighbourhood who speaks Spanish?” Memo asks with a laugh and squeezes Riccardo’s hand gently. It is surprisingly comfortable, and the realization makes Riccardo feel a bit uneasy.  
  
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” he mumbles and turns to look ahead, the familiar  _Dolce & Gabbana_ sign visible over the heads of the crowd.  
  
Riccardo had wanted to keep the wedding ceremony as small and private as possible – with just Pippo and Andrea as witnesses, if possible – but neither his mother nor Memo’s would have any of that. The reception would still be small, but not nearly as small as he had hoped.  
  
His mother had taken care of most of the arrangements, and Memo’s family and the few friends travelling to Italy would be staying at a hotel, so Riccardo could fortunately focus on just keeping himself in check even though his insides kept churning at the mere idea of actually getting married.  
  
The tailored suits would be a present from Andrea and Pippo who had decided on their own that Riccardo and Memo needed at least one perfectly fitting suit each. Stupid footballers and their obsession with expensive fashion brands…  
  
The lady at the store recognizes them right away, happily congratulating them for the approaching wedding as she ushers them into the backroom to fit their suits.  
  
Riccardo realizes he is still holding Memo’s hand only when he is forced to let go as they are pulled into different corners separated by long curtains hanging from the ceiling.  
  
The next half an hour practically flies past, the tailors checking every inch of the suits, pulling in fabric and writing down necessary changes. Riccardo and Memo are allowed to see each other only once they have both assured they have no qualms at “seeing the groom’s suit before the wedding day.”  
  
Riccardo wonders momentarily if there are any people who actually believe in that nonsense anymore, but his thoughts are interrupted when he sees Memo – and for the first time he must admit the tailored suits were a good idea.  
  
“You look great,” he tells Memo with a genuine smile, giving him an appreciative look from head to toes, the suit accentuating his tall and lean frame.  
  
He only realizes how uncharacteristic his comment must seem when he sees the bright blush rising on Memo’s cheeks. His fiancé – the word still seems odd to Riccardo – laughs embarrassedly before returning the compliment, “You don’t look bad yourself.”  
  
Riccardo is still unsure what the sudden warm feeling inside him could be when they walk out of the store, accompanied with a promise that the suits will be ready to be picked up in two days.  
  
“I left my car just around the corner earlier so—“ he is just telling Memo when he is interrupted by a painfully familiar voice.  
  
“Ricky!”  
  
Riccardo ignores the impulse to run away, turning around to face the source of the voice instead. Giampaolo is walking quickly towards him, pulling along a small boy that is practically a mirror image of him, only with lighter hair.  
  
“Giampi…” Riccardo’s lips are moving but the sound that comes out is barely audible, his breath stuck in his throat and his heart pounding so hard he is sure Memo can hear it from where he is standing next to him.  
  
Giampaolo looks like he wants to hug Riccardo when he reaches him, but Riccardo takes a step back and crosses his arms against his chest on instinct, putting up an invisible barrier between them.  
  
“Ricky, I— It’s great to see you. How have you been?” Giampaolo obviously wants to say something else entirely – but what do you say to an ex you have not seen since you broke up?  
  
“Been around, working,” Riccardo answers with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant, but his voice breaks at the first syllable, his tongue stuck on the roof of his mouth, “And you? I thought you were still in Bergamo?”  
  
“We moved here a couple months back. For Silvia’s job,” Giampaolo answers almost reluctantly, obviously aware how much the mention of his wife hurts Riccardo, “I wanted to call you but you’d changed your number.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s been a while already.”  _I changed it so you couldn’t call me._  “You seem to be doing fine.”  
  
He is purposefully avoiding looking at Giampaolo’s son. They had often talked about wanting children, back when they were together, but for some reason Riccardo had never imagined Giampaolo could have them after they were separated.  
  
“You too, you look amazing,” Giampaolo holds his gaze for much longer than necessary, sadness and yearning in his eyes mirroring Riccardo’s own, but then he quickly turns to look at Memo, “I don’t think I’ve met your friend?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. This is Memo, he’s my—”  _fiancé_ , “Friend, from Mexico. I’m showing him around the city.”  _Coward, coward, coward…_  
  
He is hoping Memo cannot understand his Italian, but it is probably a lost cause. Memo does not make a comment on it, though, he just offers his hand to Giampaolo and introduces himself in Italian, smiling uncertainly when Giampaolo shakes his hand and returns the greeting.  
  
“We’ve got plans for the evening, so we really need to get going,” Riccardo interrupts them before they can say anything more, taking a hold of Memo’s arm and pulling him to the direction of his car, addressing Giampaolo one last time, “It was nice seeing you. I’ll call you sometime, okay?”  
  
Riccardo is a fucking liar, and Giampaolo probably knows it as well.  
  
  
  
  
  
Andrea is in the middle of cooking when the doorbell rings, so he lets Pippo answer the door.  
  
He knows something is wrong the moment he hears his husband’s first question, “What’s wrong, Riccardo? Why isn’t Memo with you?”  
  
He is already turning off the heat from the stove and heading to the lobby when he catches Riccardo’s quiet answer, “I need to talk to Andrea alone. Please?”  
  
Riccardo looks like shit: cheeks tear-streaked and eyes red, his gaze darting from Pippo to Andrea and back distraughtly, his whole being pulled into himself, closed off.  
  
“I can’t do it,” Riccardo tells the moment Andrea walks up to them, his voice trembling like he was about to cry again, “I can’t— I’m just gonna end up hurting him. I already have.”  
  
“Come here,” Andrea pulls Riccardo into his arms before he can follow the order on his own, rocking him in place gently as Riccardo clings onto him, his face pressed against Andrea’s shoulder, his shallow breaths warm against his neck.  
  
“I’m going out for a bit,” Pippo tells them softly and presses a quick kiss into Andrea’s hair as he pulls his jacket on, “I’ll just call my mom or Bobo or something. Should take a few hours.”  
  
“Give them my love, will you?” Andrea tells him even as he strokes Riccardo’s hair calmingly, “Tell Marina I’m looking forward to the Christmas feast.”  
  
“Now come here,” he tells Riccardo when Pippo closes the door behind himself, pulling him into the bedroom and making him sit down on the edge of the unmade bed, “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”  
  
“We ran into Giampaolo,” Riccardo whispers, practically choking out the name, “Right after the suit fitting. He has a son, maybe around two or three years old.”  
  
Andrea is not quite sure if he should feel relieved – he had feared Riccardo had done something to Memo, something he could not fix by apologizing – or sorry for Riccardo, whose old scars had obviously been opened all at once, right before his wedding too.  
  
“Did you talk to him?” he asks carefully, fondling Riccardo’s hands between his own, trying to urge him into talking more without driving him away, “What did he say?”  
  
Andrea does not know all the details, because Riccardo’s past lover – life partner – is something Riccardo has never willingly brought up even though they have known each other for years. He knows enough to make an educated guess on the rest, though.  
  
“A bit. He told me he tried to call me when they moved to Milan,” Riccardo is visibly calming down now, although it is probably just a front, a defence mechanism, “I couldn’t tell him I was getting married. I told him Memo was my friend visiting from Mexico.”  
  
Andrea pulls Riccardo into another hug the moment he sees tears gathering in his eyes again.  
  
He has seen Riccardo cry before – he is probably one of the very few with whom Riccardo feels comfortable enough not to bother with his strong, uncaring demeanour – but it has never been like this: like he could break down completely if someone were to give him even the slightest push.  
  
“It doesn’t stop,” Riccardo is mumbling against his neck, “I thought it was getting better. That I’d be fine with Memo. But it all came back, I can’t stop it. I can’t. I can’t…”  
  
Andrea grasps Riccardo’s face into his hands, pulling him back just enough that he can press their lips together, cutting off the aimless ramble that helps no one, lest of all Riccardo.  
  
They have fucked only once after Riccardo came back from Brazil, both of them in agreement that Riccardo should concentrate on building his relationship with Memo, at least until he is sure his fiancé will be alright with them continuing their affair.  
  
But their affair has always meant an escape for them, and Andrea can see an escape is exactly what Riccardo needs right now – something to shut his mind off, something to concentrate on until he is ready to face his reality again.  
  
Riccardo attacks his lips immediately, tangling his fingers into Andrea’s hair, sucking on his bottom lip almost painfully, his tongue meeting Andrea’s eagerly when Andrea licks the insides of his mouth.  
  
They need no words, almost as familiar with each other’s bodies as their own. They are still half-clothed when Andrea pushes Riccardo down onto his knees, upper body pressed heavily against the headboard of the bed, and pulls his pants just low enough to reveal his ass.  
  
Riccardo whimpers when he pushes the first slicked finger through his entrance, pushing back against Andrea’s hand even though his muscles spasm around the digit uncomfortably.  
  
Andrea refuses to carry on the preparations right away, kissing Riccardo’s neck and shoulders comfortingly until he can feel him relax, finally allowing Andrea to move his finger, searching Riccardo’s prostate.  
  
He lets out a soft laugh when he finds what he is looking for and Riccardo bucks his hips back with a loud moan, his whole body shivering.  
  
He adds some more lube on his hand before sliding the second finger in, working faster now, stretching Riccardo expertly until he knows he is ready, his body relaxed and willing, just waiting for Andrea to finish up.  
  
Riccardo grumbles in disapproval when Andrea pulls his fingers out, even though it is only long enough to roll the condom over his cock.  
  
“Such impatience,” Andrea teases him in a low voice before he pushes himself through the ring of muscle, sinking into Riccardo’s amazing heat. He would be lying if he said he had not missed this.  
  
They move fast, Andrea thrusting into Riccardo’s body from behind, Riccardo pushing back against his every movement, moaning out loud, urging him on, gasping for air, and finally sobbing out his release when Andrea wraps his fingers around his cock and brings him over the edge.  
  
Andrea follows close behind, letting himself come the moment he can feel the clenching of Riccardo’s insides around his cock.  
  
“I don’t want to hurt him,” Riccardo admits quietly when they are both lying under the covers, Riccardo on his stomach leaning on his elbows, Andrea on his back, one of his hands caressing Riccardo’s side gently.  
  
“Why would you?”  
  
“I don’t know, it’s just this impulse – like, when he makes me feel like it could actually work, makes it seem so easy, and I just want to show him that he’s wrong,” Riccardo turns his face away from Andrea, like ashamed of himself, “I assaulted him once, in Brazil, the first time we met. I could’ve raped him – I’ve never been so disgusted with myself.”  
  
Andrea stays silent, even though the revelation is new and unsettling – he had guessed something bad had happened between Memo and Riccardo, but this is much more than what he had imagined.  
  
“And he just asked me to give him a chance – to treat him as an equal, to be honest with him – when it should’ve been me, begging for  _his_ forgiveness.”  
  
“Did you? Did you apologize?”  
  
“I couldn’t. He was right there. And I couldn’t bring myself to say it, to admit what I’d done. I just went with what he told me.”  
  
Andrea has no idea what he is supposed to say to that. Riccardo knows he did wrong, and apparently Memo forgave him because he is still here, so it is not Andrea’s place to tell him off now. It is too late for that.  
  
“But did you really? Are you really being honest with him?” he asks instead, reaching out to touch Riccardo’s face, forcing him to look into his eyes again, “He doesn’t know about your past. He doesn’t even know about us, does he?”  
  
Riccardo is biting the inside of his lip as he considers Andrea’s words, “I’m the worst, aren’t I? He’s probably the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me, and I’m just pushing him away again and again.”  
  
“You have time,” Andrea reminds him quietly, caressing Riccardo’s cheek with his thumb, “You might not be able to love him the way you loved your ex, but that’s not the only kind of love there is. Maybe if you just let him inside your little world, you might find something worth fighting for. You owe him that much, don’t you think?”  
  
Riccardo takes a hold of his hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing the palm softly before asking, “Have I ever told you I’d be lost without you?”  
  
“You haven’t. But trust me, I know.”  
  
Andrea knows Riccardo is capable of loving Memo: he has seen it in Riccardo’s eyes whenever he speaks of his fiancé. Andrea only hopes Riccardo will still have some love to spare for him when he finally realizes this himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Memo always waits up when Riccardo stays out late. Not because he is worried or because he is jealous, but because he cannot sleep in the empty apartment, as silly as it sounds.  
  
Tonight he is worried, though, because Riccardo had seemed so upset when he left right after dropping Memo off, telling him the dinner plans were cancelled. Memo knows it is because of the man they had met earlier, but he has no idea where Riccardo might have gone or why the man had affected him so much.  
  
He had not understood everything Riccardo said, but he had caught the way he had used  _amico_  instead of  _fidanzato_  when he introduced Memo.  
  
He knows it is not a big deal, but at the same time it had felt almost insulting, like Riccardo was embarrassed of being engaged to him. It might not matter with someone they barely knew, but this man was obviously important enough to turn Riccardo’s whole mood around.  
  
The sound of key turning in the lock shakes him away from his thoughts, and he lifts his gaze from the football rerun he had been staring at without actually seeing it just when Riccardo walks into the living room.  
  
“Oh, you’re still awake,” Riccardo says flatly and is about to walk straight into his room, but then he suddenly stops on his tracks and turns to face Memo, “You want some mulled wine? The German kind, I got a bottle from my mom last week.”  
  
Memo is so surprised that all he can manage to blurt out is “Sure!”  
  
Riccardo disappears into the kitchen to warm up the wine, leaving behind one very stunned Memo. It is not the first time Riccardo has been nice to him, of course, but this time he had been so sure Riccardo would just ignore him, like he normally would when he had had a rough day.  
  
Riccardo comes back with two glass cups filled with the steaming hot beverage, the spicy smell reaching Memo before he actually has a cup in his hands.  
  
“I think I owe you an apology,” Riccardo says softly as he sits down on the sofa next to Memo, careful to leave a clear distance between them, “Or several, actually.”  
  
Memo is holding his breath, afraid to speak up because it might interrupt whatever Riccardo is trying to tell him.  
  
“First of all, I’m sorry for rushing off today without explaining what was going on. It was inexcusable and you don’t deserve shitty behaviour like that,” Riccardo takes a sip from his cup and grimaces when the hot wine burns his mouth. Memo has to bite back a giggle as he turns his own cup in his hands, waiting for the wine to cool down a little.  
  
“Secondly, I’m sorry for not keeping my promise to you. I haven’t really given you a proper chance, have I? Not to mention the honesty part…” Riccardo takes a deep breath and meets Memo’s eyes as he finishes, “And I’m sorry for what I did in Brazil. I had no right to touch you, and I know nothing I ever say or do can make it up to you.”  
  
Memo’s hands are shaking around the warm cup, and he needs to set it down on the coffee table in fear of dropping it. He had almost managed to forget about what happened in Brazil – almost, because obviously he can never forget it, not really – but suddenly all those feelings are rushing back, all at once.  
  
But he has already forgiven Riccardo, or at least decided to put it past them in order to make their relationship work. The one clinging to that memory is Riccardo.  
  
“Is that why you don’t touch me?” he asks as realization starts dawning to him, “Because you’re still thinking about what happened back then?”  
  
Riccardo looks down at the cup in his hands, biting his bottom lip before he answers, “Didn’t wanna risk it. I didn’t wanna hurt you.”  
  
A long silence falls into the room, both of them quietly drinking their mulled wine, Riccardo’s words hanging between them like some invisible obstacle neither of them is brave enough to cross.  
  
Finally, when they have both finished their drinks and set down their cups, Memo gathers all his courage and reaches out for Riccardo, taking his hand in his own, just like Riccardo had done when they were walking out in the crowd, “I don’t mind. A simple touch won’t hurt me.”  
  
Riccardo is staring down at their intertwined fingers and for a second Memo is sure he is going to pull his hand away, but then he squeezes Memo’s hand in return – like a silent promise.  
  
“The man we met today, who was he?” Memo asks softly when Riccardo does not say anything else, mentally preparing himself for being pushed away again.  
  
“He’s—” Riccardo hesitates for a moment before he starts again, “We were together, for almost ten years, ever since we were teenagers. We thought it’d be forever – we were certain of it, even – but in the end he was matched up with someone else. This was the first time I saw him after he got married.”  
  
Memo opens his mouth to say he is sorry, but he closes it again as Riccardo’s words really sink in. He has no idea what he is supposed to say, so instead he just tightens his hold on Riccardo’s hand and waits for him to continue.  
  
“Seeing him brought it all back. I realized how much I still love him,” Riccardo glances at Memo, the sadness in his eyes in plain view, “But it also made me think. If he can be happy with someone else, have a family with her, then there’s no reason why I couldn’t do the same.”  
  
Memo offers him a hesitant smile as Riccardo strokes the back of his hand with his thumb. That moment, that silent understanding between them, feels much more intimate than anything they have ever done before.  
  
“I’ll wait,” he whispers to Riccardo, holding his gaze resolutely, “As long as it takes. I won’t go anywhere. We can make it work.”  
  
It may have taken almost half a year, but Memo feels like they are finally on the same page.  
  
He knows there is still a long way to go before they can be anything for each other – the numerous hickeys around Riccardo’s neck tell him as much – but it is a good start.  
  
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Riccardo interrupts his thoughts, his tone much lighter now, “When the fuss around the wedding is over, we really should redecorate the place. It doesn’t really feel like your home now, does it? We should at least get new curtains – I hate those old things.”  
  
And for now, that is all the reassurance Memo needs to know they will be fine, even if it might take a while before they get there.  
  
  



End file.
